Everywhere I Went, You Caught Up With Me
by Basscop69
Summary: Set during 2x25 - Chuck's trip to Europe. Rated T for language.
1. Prologue

Prologue

He didn't know why he'd come; clearly some part of him was fixed on self torture. He needed to see her, even though he knew how much pain it would cause him. He needed a glimpse, however fleeting, needed to gaze upon that face once more.

Chuck stopped outside the glass window, seeing her - as if it would ever take more than a glance to recognise her - and Blair's eyes locked on his; she alone had sensed him, instinctively, instantly, even through the glass.

The moment seemed to stretch forever; her brown eyes, still so full of hurt; he could see the aching in them.

But she could only stare at him in silence, helpless.

They were only separated by a sheet of glass; she was on the inside, in the warmth and light, and he was out on the cold dark street.

But he couldn't go in.

He couldn't bring himself to do what every inch of him longed to do, to go into the warmth and take her in his arms and kiss all her pain away.

Because he was too angry, and it hurt too much.

So he only had one option left; he had to get away. Had to do what Chuck Bass always did, and run away. He would never be with her. He would never have her, and that was the way it would always be. Something always got in the way, and this time it was the image of Blair and his uncle.

_Tell me it was for something_

_Maybe it was. But it's not any more._

And he had to get out, so that he could actually have a chance at maybe believing those words.

* * *

"Arthur," Chuck spoke into his phone, voice rough. "I need the private jet ready for a flight out of here tonight."

The man didn't hesitate. He knew better than that by now.

"Of course, Mr Bass. Where to?"

Chuck paused then; he hadn't given that any thought. He didn't care _where to_. Anywhere but here.

"Mr Bass?"

Chuck caught the strains of another phone conversation as a woman hurried past him on the street.

"Mais oui, bien sur..."

Well, that would do.

"France."


	2. France

It was as he was sitting on the jet, several hours out of New York, that he actually considered his destination. And it was then that he started to realise maybe France hadn't been the best idea.

France was one of her favourite places; after Manhattan, of course.

France was where her fathers lived.

He remembered how she'd pretended to scorn the country; could practically hear the disdain in her voice every time she'd mentioned it after her father had left. _Romaan_, she'd sneer in a mock French accent, layering the hurt, the pain he'd seen all to clearly in her eyes, with acidity, the same way he did. Pretending like she didn't care.

He could remember six year-old Blair Waldorf proclaiming that she would only eat croissants that came directly from Paris, because everyone knew they were the only ones worth eating; he could remember her French accent then, the practiced syllables and inflections that she'd spent hours perfecting from her favourite movies and then dutiful French lessons where she _had_ to be the best.

Nate and Serena had always struggled with French; neither of them had particularly bothered learning it, much like any other school subject. Chuck may not have bothered with the conventional route, but the sexiness of the French drawl had not been lost on him, and his own could easily rival Blair's.

They were the only two that could drop an idle French phrase into conversation without a second thought and carry it off; their first _je ne sais quois _and _tete-a-tetes _ had been met with blank looks from their lesser peers.

And there was no French accent, not even on an actual Frenchwoman, that he'd ever found sexier than Blair's...and he was suddenly consumed with an aching desire, a throbbing loss, because all he wanted to do was hear her voice.

And he couldn't.

He couldn't, because of Jack. The thought that still made him feel physically sick.

So he shut his eyes, and turned the inane flight music up full blast to try and drive out all thoughts of her.

* * *

But, of course, his chauffeured car _would_ drive through the splendour of Paris at night.

The tree lined avenues, the glowing lights, the charming little candle-lit restaurants with intimate tables that spilled out onto the street - all of it a reminder of why it was her favourite city, because it was so fucking _romantic_.

Chuck Bass was _not_ a romantic, and he did _not_ love Blair's stupid fantasies.

The way her eyes glowed when he did something romantic that took her entirely off guard (like when he'd bought her that dress, like their own candle-lit dinner he'd prepared on the roof at the beginning of last summer) - not just because he was Chuck Bass, but because for all her romantic dreams, experience meant she never expected them to actually happen to _her. _

Unlike Nate, who wouldn't really know romance if it hit him over the head, Chuck had always known how to manipulate it to get girls into bed if necessary. Not that it ever really had been. And, he realised, he probably had Blair to thank for that. Blair and her obsession with heroes like Gregory Peck; her endless infatuation with Hepburn movies and the sheer number of times she'd watched them had probably given the young Chuck Bass his first glimpse of romance.

And made it all the easier for him to outwardly scorn.

Except that he'd never teased _her_ about it, even as kids. Because it was just so Blair. She'd told Nate her insistence they watch the movies over and over was because she liked knowing how things would turn out.

But that was only part of the reason. Because the real reason was that Blair Waldorf was just as much of a secret romantic as Chuck Bass was.

Which was why her scrapbook made perfect sense; which was why, of course, Chuck had known she'd never put it away like she claimed. And he remembered it, then, that smile on her face when she'd been crowned prom queen, when one of her nights had finally turned out how she'd dreamed it, something that never happened to Blair Waldorf, for all her determination.

And the knowledge that he'd been the one to do it. That he _could_ make her happy. Because of all the sides of Blair he loved, which was all of them, each and every one, the Blair he loved most of all was happy Blair.

When her smile was entirely real and unconscious; when, quite simply, she glowed. Like in those first weeks after Victrola; rolling around with her in her bed, catching her in his arms and kissing her neck to hear her giggle. And feeling the glow of her smile, then, on _him_, he'd wondered how the hell anyone could ever want anything else.

But then he remembered, that as easy as it was to make her smile, it was easier, far too easy, to make her cry. He knew exactly how to hurt her; and he had done so, numerous times. He wasn't like Nate, who had made her cry out of ignorance, who had never realised when he was hurting her. Each time Chuck had hurt her, he'd known he was, and it had been deliberate.

Shoving her away, lashing out, even _wanting_ the one thing he loved more than anything to hurt as much as he did, because that was the kind of person he was.

He couldn't be trusted with her happiness.

* * *

And in the hotel, what had they left on his pillow?

A macaroon.

He could tell from the wrapper that it wasn't one of her favourites, and he tossed it into the bin, trying to ignore it, furious with the way that everything, everything reminded him of her. It was a _macaroon_.

* * *

He decided to go for a walk the next day, needing to get out of the hotel and the loneliness of the double bed, the _croissants _on the room service menu, the second macaroon that had been laid on his pillow - still the wrong kind - and the irritating view of the Eiffel Tower in his window (because out of the numerous proposals she'd planned, she'd always been rather enchanted with the idea of _that_ location).

But it was a warm, breezy day outside, and the strains of French, the sun shining on the broad pavements, the quaint patisseries - they made for a scene lifted directly from Funny Face. Her third favourite movie, of course.

Not Charade, as he'd known all too well, teasing her with it, knowing only she would get the significance, and amusing himself with the look of panicked fury she'd given him. He'd always loved winding her up; loved getting under her skin like only he could. Except the game had gone too far that time with her stupid heart pin, and she'd managed to hurt him like he deserved. And neither of them had ended up winning.

It was ironic, really. Here he was, the summer of the following year, running away from her yet again - only this time he was the one in Europe, and she was the one at home.

He'd failed as miserably then as he was now, in his efforts to not think about her. Except this time he knew that his previously tried and tested methods of distraction - alcohol and women - wouldn't do anything. He knew better than to even bother; he didn't think he could have stomached either, anyway. Not any more, not now.

Last time it had been Bastille Day that had got to him the most. He'd let himself slip one day - sorely hungover, he had just thrown yet another meaningless conquest out of his suite, when his attention had been drawn by the news on the television. A brief showing of the fireworks in France. And then, that was it; all he'd been able to think about for the rest of the day was Blair, Blair, Blair. Hating himself because he knew she was in France, and he couldn't help but wonder if she was watching those fireworks, if she was enjoying herself. He'd eventually had to call up another girl, because he'd found himself tuning into a French channel to watch them properly - not the fireworks, but the sudden thought that he might see Blair in the crowds.

Pathetic. He'd been so pathetic last year that it made him cringe now.

_Was Gossip Girl right about you? Are you a coward?_

No. No, Chuck Bass was not a coward.

He just couldn't think about_ her_.

And he needed to get out of France. Now.

* * *

He hadn't needed to pack again, because he'd hardly unpacked, and the flight was due to leave in an hour. He'd chosen Germany because it was as free of association with her as he could get.

But he found himself walking down the street, heading straight for Pierre Herme. He needed to do one thing before he left.

In the shop, he picked out a box of the right macaroons, checking to make sure each one was perfect, the wrapping co-ordinated and the box just the right size. He didn't stop to think why he was buying them, because he didn't want or even need to; all he knew was that once he had, he felt an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. It didn't matter that the box of her favourite macaroons in his suitcase was all he had to show for his trip to France.

Then he got into the car and headed to the airport.

Germany.


	3. Germany

The bell-boy in the hotel was called Klaus, which of course reminded him of Serena's German stepfather, which reminded him of Serena, which shouldn't - it really shouldn't - have reminded him of - Blair. She was _everywhere_.

2003. Lily's wedding to her third husband. They had all been invited, of course, but the Archibalds had been unable to attend, since it was William Archibald's birthday the same weekend. Which was partially the reason that thirteen year-old Chuck had got so drunk. Not that Nate would have looked after him - that was Chuck's role, after all; Chuck didn't need anyone to look after _him _- but maybe if Nate hadn't been at the Vanderbilt estate, Chuck might have had a better distraction, or even someone to share the whisky bottle with. He'd still been experimenting with alcohol at that age, and he'd enjoyed the burning in his throat almost as much as the bitter satisfaction of stealing it from his father's cabinet.

It had been because of Bart in the first place. As always.

Chuck had carefully selected a watch as a gift to his father, to celebrate another successful business venture. Bart never told Chuck about these things, but, as ever, Chuck followed them intently. So he knew how much of a big deal the contract had been.

Bart had looked at the present blankly, asked how much it had cost, and dismissed his son for wasting so much money. Which probably shouldn't have hurt Chuck that much, because what else had he expected? Anyway, he'd told himself as he'd downed another glass, no one hurt Chuck Bass. He was getting drunk because he wanted to.

But it had been a mistake, because he had the wedding to go to. He'd put on a purple bow tie to piss his father off, but he couldn't stand the thought of Bart's disgust if he'd discovered his son was drunk.

The limo ride to the church had been easy enough; he and Bart were on opposite sides, and Bart was on his blackberry the entire time.

Luckily, he'd spotted Blair in a purple dress when he'd got out, and made his escape to her. Chuck had been getting good at acting sober, but of course she'd known. Blair always did. He remembered the way she'd rolled her eyes, as ever - except her warm brown eyes were so different to cold of Bart's blue - and she was the only one he genuinely enjoyed earning an eye-roll from, since it was always accompanied by the hint of her smirk.

"You're meant to get drunk during the wedding, Bass, not before."

"Nothing wrong with starting the festivities early."

"You would know."

And they'd exchanged another smirk.

Filing into the church, their eyes had flickered to Bart. If Chuck had to spend an hour's service next to his father, there was no hope the scent of whisky on his breath would pass undetected. Blair had slid in front of Chuck, wordlessly, in the pew, so that he was on the inside next to the wall, and she was next to him, blocking him from Bart's sharp gaze.

And that memory reminded Chuck of the other church service where Blair had tried to look after him while he was drunk - this time, his father's funeral.

She alone had ventured into his dark hotel room, where no one else had dared - or, in all honesty, really wanted - to go since he had run away from the hospital. Lily, Eric, and Serena had given up knocking on his door after a few days.

Blair was the only one who kept calling him; those days had been a blur of pain and anger, where all he could remember was her name all over his phone, a never ending list of rejected calls from her.

Blair alone had finally forced her way in the day of the funeral; she alone had straightened his suit, prised the bottle of alcohol out of his hand. Nate had been there, strong and solid, supporting him, but it had been Blair on his other side, clinging to him, trying to hold him up even though she was half his size.

Blair alone had followed him after the reception.

And at the end of the day, when he couldn't take it any more, no longer caring how selfish it was, he had gone to her. Because he'd needed to go home, and her arms were the only ones he'd let wrap round him, the only ones he'd wanted to. And it had been clinging to her, and her alone, that he'd finally let himself cry. The hot tears searing his face, his head against her silk dress, her scent.

Nobody had ever hugged Chuck, unless you counted that Brooklyn bar owner, Horace, who had completely thrown him. Chuck Bass didn't do_ hugs_.

Blair always claimed not to either - the indignation in her voice as she called Cyrus a _hugger_ - but she did hug the people she loved, when they needed it. Serena, her father - she'd sometimes looked like she wanted to be hugged by Nate, and he had no qualms about wrapping his arms around her, briefly, automatically, when it occurred to him, a token gesture.

So what had made her cling to _him_ that night, wrap her arms around Chuck and hold him like she was trying to hold him together, squeeze him like she never wanted to let go? All Chuck had known then was that he needed it, and he hadn't been able to question it.

Till he'd woken up and seen her, still clinging to him in her sleep.

He'd tried to explain it in the note, what it had been too painful for him to say - she deserved much better. He didn't deserve her love. What had he ever done to deserve that much love? He had refused to believe it, and he'd run away again.

Except she'd refused to give up; yes, she kept coming back. Why? Why did she think he was worthy of that much perseverance?

He thought he'd finally managed to drive her away in Victrola, deliberately throwing her _I love you _back in her face, telling himself he didn't care how white she'd gone at his words, didn't care that her voice had caught, didn't care that she'd finally left him because that was what he'd _wanted. _It was better for her that way.

Except that on the roof that night, teetering off the edge, her small voice rising above the wind; all he'd known, selfish though it was, was silent relief that she'd come back.

_Don't you understand? I'll always be here._

He hadn't wanted to believe it then, either, but he'd looked down at her and seen that she was almost begging, seen the hurt in her shining brown eyes. Seen that she was hurting.

_Please don't do that to me. Please._

And it occurred to Chuck now, as he sat in a German hotel room, that, inconceivable though it seemed, his absence maybe hurt her more than _he_ ever could.

_I don't want you going anywhere. I couldn't bear it._

Because after everything he'd done to her, all the horrible things he'd said and done - and it didn't matter how much it had hurt _him_ to do them, because he'd still done them - she had refused, after everything, to give up.

She'd held his face, made him look into her eyes, so that there could be no doubt, and told him, again, that she loved him - that she loved him so much it consumed her. And he'd known she wasn't lying, because he could see it in her eyes, because it was painfully obvious from everything she did that it _did _consume her. He knew she wasn't lying because it consumed him too; and that was the problem. How could a love that consuming be healthy for her, when it didn't even make sense? She had no reason to love him. And he'd proved it, after all, by pushing her away, by running away yet again.

Deliberately hurting her yet again, because - what? He'd been angry? No, he'd used anger to cover up how terrified he was. Lashed out, because that was easier.

_Finding excuses._

Well, he'd messed it all up again now. Just like he'd known he would. It was the only thing Chuck Bass _could_ do.

* * *

He was on his way to the hotel bar when a little girl in the foyer caught his attention. A little girl in a headband.

He forced his way on to the bar, sitting down and trying to push out images of a pre-school Blair, chocolate locks combed neatly into her little headband, commanding even at the age of four, of Blair at school, headband slid flawlessly into place like the crown she deserved, reigning queen, of Blair in Victrola, turning to look straight at him from the stage, gleam in her eyes locked on him, as her hands slid daringly to her headband to toss it into the crowd, dark hair tumbling loose.

Of Blair, seconds from him, eyes still never leaving his, hand sliding to her headband once more, pulling it out so that the scent of her hair tickled him, laying herself bare for _him_, putting on a show for him and only him.

_What do you think of my headband?_

He had replied that he admired it. It was her signature, like his scarf had been his, both of them sliding their trademarks, their identities into place at the start of each day, ready to face the world.

But her headband didn't define her. It was a small part of everything that made up Blair Waldorf, but she was queen with or without it. Something she'd finally seen when she'd thrown it away in Victrola.

_And my stockings?_

He adored them. It hadn't been the stockings he had stroked, though, it was her warm skin above them; that had been all he'd wanted to feel.

Her.

_And my dress?_

He worshipped it. Like he worshipped everything she wore.

But he'd stopped looking at it as soon as it fell away from her; it was forgotten.

He admired her headbands, he adored her stockings, he worshipped her dresses - but all of them were nothing to the girl inside them. That was what he _loved_. That was all he wanted.

Blair.

He left the bar without ordering anything.

* * *

He ran a hand over the luxurious silk of the falke stockings. He had no idea why the hell he'd gone looking for them - like stroking the fabric could bring back that night?

Because without Blair, they were just material.

He bought them, though, because they were her favourite.

* * *

He had decided that the only reason he felt so lonely, so lost, was because no one spoke his language. He had no one to speak to. That was all. That was the only reason his thoughts kept returning to Blair at every possible moment, every second of the agonising day that dragged out, empty.

So he called up his jet again, telling them to prepare to fly once more. This time, to somewhere he might feel a little more at home.

England.


	4. AN

Sorry, this isn't a real chapter! I just wanted to say thanks so much for your reviews; they're really lovely, and much appreciated :)


	5. England

Marcus came from England, the stupid lord she'd pretended to love, the idiot who hadn't even deserved a fraction of her false love, not a second of her time. The moron who'd actually _had _her, and wasn't satisfied. Who could have taken her whenever he wanted, and hadn't.

It had been all too easy to fake a British accent, but the real satisfaction, the real delight Chuck had felt was not just the first moment she'd been back in his arms, her mouth tentatively on his. It had been when she'd paused for a second, gazing up at him in the darkness, pressed to his chest, and he'd known with absolute certainty that she knew. She knew exactly who he was. And then he'd kissed her again, and she'd kissed him back with twice as much hunger.

Unfortunately, now, the male voice over the airport tannoy in its British accent just reminded Chuck of how much he hated Marcus. Marcus had managed to leave the burning impression on Chuck that all Englishmen were complete fools. He was pretty sure the British accent would no longer have the same appeal to Blair, either, that it once had.

She chose these perfect men, these men who on paper were everything a girl could want, glowing all rounders. Nate, Marcus; and it seemed only Chuck could tell they still weren't enough for her. They still didn't deserve her. And these people were so stupid, that they made her think _she_ was the one who didn't deserve them. Because they didn't bother to get to know her, they didn't relish, didn't worship every inch of her. Why?

If Chuck had her...but Chuck couldn't have her. Chuck didn't have her.

It frustrated him beyond belief that he seemed to be the only person who knew her. Why _him_? Why couldn't Nate just wake up to how amazing she was and make her happy? If anyone deserved her, Nate did.

Except she didn't belong with Nate, a tiny voice reminded him. She never had. She didn't even want Nate anymore. And he knew it now; after all, Nate actually _had_ wanted her. She had been the one to break up with him.

She didn't belong with Nate.

But Chuck didn't belong with anyone.

Did he?

* * *

It was raining. A cliche, not just because it was England, but because Chuck was sitting in a restaurant, alone and depressed. Blair had always claimed she hated the rain; not only was it cold and miserable, but it messed up her hair and it messed up her plans.

They had been in the Hamptons once, the four of them - they must have been fourteen - when it had been a particularly rainy summer.

Blair had been furious, because a sudden downpour had started while they were on the beach. Yelping, she had run straight under an umbrella, horrified at the flimsy protection it offered. She'd insisted they go home, until reasonable Nate had pointed out that they would get just as wet in the attempt. Chuck could picture her now, thoroughly put out, yelling in vain above the rain and the waves, trying to make her tiny frame as commanding as possible while huddling for shelter.

Chuck had never been a huge fan of the rain either, for similar reasons. Unless there were girls in white dresses, of course. But since Blair and Serena were in bikinis anyway...

Serena had remained in the rain, perfectly at ease. She'd tried to drag her reluctant best friend out, laughing, twirling in the downpour, while Nate had watched, laughing too. Serena always made him laugh.

"Come on, Waldorf," Chuck had teased. "Scared the water's gonna make you melt?"

Blair had narrowed her eyes on him.

"I think you'll find that's you," she'd retorted. Arched an eyebrow. "In case you haven't noticed, you're not in the rain either."

It was true; he'd subtly crept under the umbrella, and in all honesty, had been equally irritated by how ineffective it was. He'd just rolled his eyes back.

"Hair like this takes a while to perfect."

"My thinking exactly."

They'd smirked at each other.

Then a gust of wind had blown the rain even more fiercely onto them, and they'd both darted at the same time for more shelter, except Chuck had got there first.

"Hey," Blair had snapped. "Move over, Bass."

He'd opened his mouth to answer, grin already on his lips, when another tremendous gust had blown the umbrella out of the ground, tossing it into the air and away from them. Blair had screeched in horror as she found herself fully exposed to the rain, and had lunged for cover - and ended up on top of Chuck.

They'd both been winded for a second, but Chuck had got his bearings first, and he couldn't resist, reaching up to squeeze her bare waist, cheekily, with an even wider grin.

"Well, if I'd realised you wanted me that much..."

She'd glared down at him, rolling her eyes, and slid out of his grasp.

"Very funny. You're disgusting."

But just as she'd never minded, not really, he'd never minded those words coming from her mouth; if anything, he rather enjoyed them. Seeing the rise he could get from her, because in those days - before Victrola - that had been all it was, their banter. Of course he'd been attracted to her, taken great pleasure in touching her when he could - and Chuck was the only guy, apart from Nate, she'd ever let get that close (which still hadn't been all that close) - but he'd never have done anything else, and she knew it, because she was his friend above everything else. Not just his friend; one of his best friends. His only girl friend, and the only girl he'd ever cared about. He'd cared about Serena, despite despairing of her, when it had been the four of them - but Blair had always been his favourite. The bond he'd had with Blair had always been unique. Which was why he'd lost all respect for Serena after she'd slept with Nate, not just because she'd betrayed her best friend, but because she'd torn them apart. At the time, it would have been like Chuck taking advantage of Blair. It was just an unspoken rule; and Serena had broken it.

Technically, Chuck had then broken it himself the following year in the back of his limo. Except he hadn't, because being with Blair then had felt right like nothing else ever had. It was _right_. Because he'd always loved her, really; Victrola had just been the moment he'd realised he was in love with her.

Being with her was always right. Even the butterflies, the churning feeling in his stomach; even the hurt, and the jealousy, and the fear - really, none of it had ever eclipsed how right she felt in his arms, the glow he got from her smile, the sweetness of her lips; the way that they fit. Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck.

So why was he _still_ running? What the hell was he doing on the other side of the world from the only person he wanted, the only person he'd ever want, to be with?

* * *

"Can I help you, sir?"

Chuck glanced at the shop assistant with a brief smile.

"Yes. I'd like to buy a dress."

Chuck had only ever bought two dresses for Blair Waldorf.

The first, he'd had the pleasure of giving to her, seeing her face light up in wonder, delight; but never the pleasure of seeing _on_ her in Europe, where it had been intended for. The first time he'd actually seen her in it, he had thought she was wearing it purely to torment him. Their stupid game with Vanessa, when for the first time ever, Chuck hadn't known exactly what Blair was thinking; the first time he'd misread her. Because he hadn't believed she'd actually _wanted _to be with him; had assumed the only explanation could be that she was after revenge.

The second dress, he hadn't been able to see her getting. And that would have been even more enjoyable than the first dress; seeing her face as she realised it was the dress from her scrapbook. He'd seen her wearing it, though, and he'd seen how happy she was.

And, he realised, he would give anything to make her that happy again.

* * *

The dress was a deep shade of violet; he knew for a fact that she didn't have any dresses in that colour. And it wasn't purely selfish, just because it was his favourite colour. He knew it would be exquisite on her; after all, there was a reason purple was his favourite colour, and her own skin tone, her own colouring matched his, as they both knew all too well. It was why their clothes were always coordinated, even when they really shouldn't have been. Even at the times when they were supposed to have hated each other.

* * *

Chuck had decided to go to Italy.

That should, really, have been the one place to avoid above all others. But he couldn't stop himself. Not any more.

He was going there, and, what was more, he was going straight to Tuscany.

She had gone to Tuscany alone.

And now he would.


	6. Italy

He checked into the same luxury resort that he had booked last year; the one that he had never made it to. Where she had stayed, alone, for two whole weeks.

Fourteen days of waiting for him to arrive.

Fourteen days of him ringing the hotel each morning, his heart clenching as they'd informed him Miss Waldorf was indeed still checked in.

He was staying, now, in the same cabana that she had. Facing the same sunset that she'd no doubt watched, sinking over the flawless landscape. Italy was far too beautiful for its own good; far too beautiful to take in when his heart was aching this much.

What was he doing, running away? Because, really, what was he running away from?

Chuck Bass had always prided himself on never needing to search. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he went after it. Yet another trait he shared with Blair. They weren't like Nate, always lost, always confused, or like Serena, who never really knew what she wanted. He'd always known there was no one he wanted but Blair. That had never been the problem. His problem, like Blair's, had been in denying that want. Because they had both failed to deny it, miserably, despite their best efforts.

But why had they even tried? Because it hadn't fit into their plans. They weren't supposed to fall in love with each other. Fire didn't go with fire.

Except it did. How could Chuck deny that, any time he looked at her? And how had Blair, of all people, ended up being the one who stopped denying it first? After all, himself not included, she was the biggest liar he knew.

Chuck had always prided himself on knowing people, on being able to read them in any situation - and, above all, on knowing Blair. He'd always thought he knew far more about her than she did him; he'd had years of knowing everything about her, of being able to read her thoughts in a heartbeat, to his advantage. What he had failed to realise, refused to accept, was that she had exactly the same advantage.

_Stop telling me how I feel_, he'd spat at her.

That was what he was really terrified of - she did know him. The fear that she could see through his lies as easily as he saw through hers. It was why he had run away the first time - the fear that she would see him. He'd convinced himself his facade was far more securely in place than hers.

She'd told him she would stand by him, through the worst thing he'd ever done, the darkest thought he'd ever had. And he'd pushed her away, run away, because he'd refused to believe that she would do that if she_ actually_ knew his darkest thoughts. How could she? After his father's death, nothing had made sense - least of all that. He hadn't wanted to see it.

* * *

When Chuck was eight, he hurt Nate for the first time. Nate had blown him off on his birthday to spend time with his father. He'd asked Chuck if he minded, and Chuck had responded that he couldn't have cared less. That if Nate wanted to be a pathetic daddy's boy, that was up to him. He'd told his best friend he'd have a far better time without him - because Nate was _boring_. He'd gone too far, knowing all the time he hadn't meant a word of it.

Chuck_ hated_ his birthdays. They were always a disappointment, and all he could think at the time, was that even Nate had let him down; even Nate didn't care about him. But of course he'd never have admitted that to anyone. So he'd told Nate all those things, in front of Blair and Serena. Nate had stared at him, confused, shocked; no one was ever mean to him, least of all his best friend, and Serena had been equally horrified. Chuck had just rolled his eyes and stalked off, unable to face them any more.

Nate had probably forgotten the incident now - they'd only been kids, after all. But Chuck remembered, and he had vowed never to hurt his best friend again. Which he'd stuck to, until a certain night in Victrola.

He had been skulking alone in the playground when Blair had come up to him.

"You need to say sorry to Nate."

He'd scowled at her, till he'd followed her gaze across the yard. Serena was comforting Nate, arms thrown around him, blonde head bent over his. Blair looked away, to him, glowering.

Chuck just glowered back. "No, I don't."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Like you meant any of that."

"I _did_."

"You're a really bad liar."

"So are you."

But they couldn't be such bad liars, not when everyone else believed them. She'd caught him; she'd known. Like she always did. He hadn't admitted it to her. But he had made up with Nate.

And she'd known that, of course; not that she'd said anything. Not that she'd needed to.

* * *

Had his lies ever worked on Blair?

When he'd told her he didn't want her any more; that she was rode hard and put away wet like one of his father's Arabians - she'd already been crushed, and he'd said exactly the right words to play into her insecurities, cutting into her need to be perfect and untouched. She'd stayed away from him after that, deliberately. Glared at him whenever their gazes met. But he'd been doing the same thing. They had been angry, and hurt, at each other. But they'd forgiven each other, and it hadn't even needed to be said. She hadn't even needed his apology.

She'd taken him back into her arms, held him together, both times he had scorned her _I love you_ - even the second time, when he'd told her it was time to let go of her fantasies - she had come back for him.

Even when he'd told her to stop playing the _wife_, after all the support she'd given him, all the times she'd picked him up. He'd thought, then, that he'd finally scared her off. She'd told him she was done, but she hadn't been able to meet his gaze as she'd said it. He had been the one to leave, the one to give up.

She'd been furious with him, she'd been in agony - but she'd been willing to drop her relationship with Nate, to throw all of that away, if he'd only tell her how he felt. _Tell me if what you feel for me is real. If it is, we'll figure it out._

Just like at the white party. His explanation had come far too late; really, it should have been insufficient after what he'd done to her. _I was scared you'd see me. _In any other context, coming from anyone else, pathetic words. But she'd known it was the truth; she'd known exactly what he meant. It was pointless, really, the fear that she would see him. She'd always seen him.

And he could picture her face now, see the tears in her brown eyes, as she'd told him she would stay with him - that she would be his, regardless of what he'd done, even though he'd abandoned her - if he'd just say it. Just admit it.

Three words, eight letters.

* * *

He had to get out of the cabana, because the butterflies were now churning in his stomach unbearably, so he decided to go for a walk.

And what was the first thing he saw?

A couple, wandering along the path, hand in hand. Holding hands.

_Think about it. Chuck and Blair, holding hands?_

Except moments after he'd said those words, seeing how upset she'd been, he hadn't been able stop himself kneeling in front of her, _holding her hand_. And when he'd left, letting go had been the last thing he'd forced himself to do.

They were always holding hands.

Whenever they danced, for starters; cotillions, weddings, balls.

That first night, in the limo, her hand had caught his on the seat as she'd moved over to kiss him, and they'd stayed clasped together for a moment, grasping.

When he'd comforted her on her 17th birthday, their fingers had entwined as he'd kissed her shoulder and she'd leaned against him.

On the rooftop, her hand had stretched out to his, and he'd caught it.

Then, of course, in the limo, when they'd fallen asleep on each other, and woken up to find themselves - holding hands. They'd both stared for a second, equally shocked, at their fingers interlinked between them, like they had minds of their own.

Chuck and Blair, holding hands.

The second thing Chuck noticed about the couple was the tinny music that assaulted his ears from one of their cell phones.

His first thought - _tacky. _Blair would have had exactly the same reaction.

He recognised the song; U2, _Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own_.

"_And it's you when I look in the mirror,_

_And it's you when I don't pick up the phone._

_Sometimes you can't make it on your own."_

Chuck Bass had reached a low point indeed, when a _U2 _song was spelling out the truth for him.

* * *

_It's you when I look in the mirror. _

Stupid line, he told himself. Stupid song.

Chuck stared into the bathroom mirror at his reflection. He hadn't been able to look at himself all of last summer. He'd looked, finally, the day he'd known she was on the way back. Looking to see what she'd see; needing to know if she'd see the coward he was.

He'd stopped looking in the mirror again after she'd told him she was done. When, standing in that elevator, he'd seen just how much he had hurt her.

He'd avoided his reflection after he'd slept with Vanessa, purely to hurt Blair, and during the stream of girls after that.

His eyes burned back into him now, his jaw set.

Blair had told him she wouldn't be weak any more. She wasn't weak, though. She was anything but. And if she could disprove her label - couldn't he disprove his?

A coward.

If she could fight her weakness, for him, then surely the least he could do was fight his cowardice for her. He'd had _enough_ of running away. There was nowhere he could run, anyway, that he could escape her. Not when she already occupied all of his thoughts. Running away from her was like running away from himself, and if he'd learned anything over the past year, it was that _that_ would never work.

And it might be too late; he probably deserved for it to be too late, based on the sheer number of times he'd hurt her. But it was time he stopped being a coward; it was time he faced up to it. Even if she did reject him like he deserved. The very least he could do for her was take that risk.

* * *

"I need the jet ready. As soon as possible."

The voice on the other end of the line, when it reached Chuck's ears, now sounded slightly exasperated.

"Where to, Mr Bass?"

Chuck smiled faintly.

"Home."

He had to go back.

Not just because of how much he missed her every second he was away from her.

Because had to say it. He owed her the three words and eight letters that belonged to her, that always had, and, in all honesty, always would.

He wasn't going to run away any more.

**A/N - I wasn't really sure about the U2 song...I was worried it was maybe a bit too cheesy. But I heard it while I was writing, and the lines immediately made me think of Chuck and Blair. So I couldn't resist. **


	7. Home

**A/N - I know, everyone knows how the story goes from here. But I had to give it the proper ending :) This is the last chapter. Thank you again for all you reviews!**

Chuck had Arthur pick him up from the airport.

He debated, for a second, going back to his suite first - but by now the butterflies were driving him insane. All he wanted to do was see her. Chuck Bass rarely, if ever, wore his shirts loosely buttoned without a tie, but going home to pick out another suit would take too much time. He still freshened up in the limo, combing back his hair, straightening his suit. However great his desire to see her, he wouldn't do so looking disgusting; it was Blair, after all, and he was Chuck.

He laid out the gifts on the seat. Her favourite things. Of course it wasn't enough. He couldn't just show up with gifts and expect everything to be all right. But there was all the proof he needed, that there was nowhere he could go that she wouldn't catch up with him. Buying her favourite things had been the only satisfaction he'd got from any of Europe. He remembered what he'd told her at his father's wedding. When she'd stared at him, surprised, teasing; "Chuck Bass is a romantic. Who knew?"

_Now you do. And that's all that matters._

She was the only person he would ever want, ever need, to be romantic for.

"Arthur," he called suddenly. "We have one stop to make first."

If he was going to give her gifts, they had to be nothing short of perfect. She didn't deserve any less.

They stopped at her favourite florist. He picked out a selection of pink peonies, making sure they were wrapped flawlessly.

But as he was getting back into his limo, he received a text. A Gossip Girl blast. After the last disastrous one, he was half tempted not to read it. But the topic - _A New Queen_ - caught his attention. Of course it did. He opened it, and the first thing he saw was Blair.

Somebody had snapped a photo of her with Jenny Humphrey and a jeweled headband. Her crown. The corners of Chuck's mouth turned up as he read the text, grinning to see Blair's smirk. She'd put the mean girls in their place, as was only right; reclaimed her authority in a final blow like only she could, reminding them all that she was queen for a reason. He agreed with her choice, of course; Jenny Humphrey would make a good successor, even if she wasn't quite Blair. Even if she did come from Brooklyn. Chuck hadn't forgotten that little Humphrey had been the trigger forcing him to face up to his real problem; the fact that he'd lost Blair. And she'd actually won Blair's respect last year. That, if nothing else, made her a worthy choice.

The photo had only just been taken, and from the looks of it, Blair was in the yoghurt bar near their school. And now that she'd accomplished her mission, Chuck knew she wouldn't be hanging around. She would probably be on the way home by now.

He gave Arthur new instructions, his heart practically pounding. But with it was determination. The last three times he had bought Blair flowers, they had ended up in the trash. And he was going to make sure she got them this time.

* * *

He stood in front of his limo, gifts in his hands, watching the crowds of people. Waiting. He'd told her the limo was sacred, and it was. Not just because of their first night - it was where she'd first told him she loved him. Three words, eight letters. Except this time, he wasn't going to run away.

Finally, finally, he saw her, and he had to fight to keep the stupid smile off his face just at the sight of her. He could've sworn his heart skipped a beat.

She saw him, and her pace slowed. Stopped. He saw the shock, the sheer disbelief on her face. She stared at him. Then she swallowed, forcing herself to speak, and her voice was tight. Almost accusing.

"Why aren't you in Europe?"

He moved towards her, controlling himself, because the hurt in her eyes was agonising.

"I _was _in Paris," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. It was hard when all he wanted to do was bury her in his arms. He held out the box instead. "But only to get your favourite macaroons from Pierre Herme."

She eventually took the box, stunned, eyes widening. He'd caught her off guard again. He'd seen it though; the briefest hint of a shocked smile.

"And Germany?" she asked carefully, confused, eyes never leaving his. Like she still couldn't believe it. He held out another box.

"To pick up your favourite Falke stockings." That trace of a smile crossed her face again, amazed, and he smiled. Lowered his voice, gentle. "You know how I adore them."

He knew what he was saying. He saw the shadow cross her face at the reminder, and her guard went back up as she remembered her anger. The pain hadn't gone.

"What are you doing here, then?" Her voice was quiet, stiff.

No more pretending. No more distracting with gifts. Chuck gazed straight back at her, as serious as she was now.

"You were right," he said flatly. "I was a coward, running away again." Her gaze lowered, pain still in her eyes. "Everywhere I went," he went on softy, almost wryly, "You caught up with me." Swallowed. "So I had to come back."

She breathed out. "I want to believe you," she muttered at last, gaze flickering away, "But I can't." Looked up at him again, aching. "You hurt me too many times."

But he wasn't going to give up this time; wasn't going to let her get away.

_Because in the face of true love, you don't just give up. Even if the object of your affections is begging you to._

She hadn't given up. And he needed to show her, needed to prove to her that he never would again.

"You can believe me this time," he said firmly, his eyes never leaving hers. Letting her search them. She went very still.

"Oh."

For a second, she seemed unable to meet his gaze, which was how he knew without a doubt that her heart was thumping as much as his was. Then she lifted her eyes, finally looking up at him. Her voice caught, barely audible. Almost too scared to hope.

"That's it?"

He looked back at her, and smiled, very faintly. The same smile echoed on her lips, but it was still tentative, waiting. Nervous. And despite the butterflies, despite his thumping heart, he was suddenly filled with a sense of calm.

"I love you too."

He couldn't stop the smile as he said it, though his eyes were serious, because the words were the most natural, the most right thing in the world. And the feeling he got saying them was almost - almost - as amazing as the smile on her face as she heard them. The way her features lit up, like he'd just given her all she'd ever wanted. But he barely had time to revel in the fact that _he'd_ made her that happy, because she had moved straight into his arms, wrapping her own around his neck, presents forgotten. And he caught her back, kissing her deeply, pulling her to him. She was in his arms, where she belonged, and he was never going to let go of her again.

She eventually pulled back from their kisses, though she still clung to him, his hands still squeezing her waist, to gaze up at him with a sparkle in her eye.

"But...Can you say it twice?" she teased, happy beyond belief, eyes still glowing.

He grinned back, kissing her again, breathing her in. She managed to pull away once more, just for a second, nose brushing his.

"No, I'm serious. Say it twice."

And she laughed; her real, unconscious laugh, the sound that made his stomach somersault, his heart squeeze.

And she might only have been joking, but he kissed her again, murmuring, "I love you." Then, in between kisses, "I love you - that's three." Another kiss. "Four." She laughed again, and he kissed her again. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."


End file.
